Maura Moynihan, an American renaissance woman
February 14th, 2008
Maura Moynihan, an American renaissance woman
By
Antonio Pineda & Richard Rubacher
I cruise through the untrendy McDonald’s, situated in the Robinson Shopping Complex near Asok Skytrain. The gourmet coffee is cheap and good, making the McCafe a hangout for the bohemian crowd in
A lanky northern
Erich’s mobile phone rings. He speaks animatedly and hangs up. A smug smile crosses his face as he says, “Hey Tony, that was Maura Moynihan. You guys want to do coffee with her?”
Maura Moynihan is the daughter of Patrick Moynihan, the late Democratic Senator and former right honorable Ambassador to
Maura makes a grand entrance. She is slim and pretty, with sky blue eyes and red Celtic hair. She possesses a charismatic personality and the facility to converse nonstop.
“Maura, you created a storm of controversy with your first novel,” I asked. “Can you tell us about it?”
My novel Covergirl; Confessions of a Flawed Hedonist.” The title was my idea; the publishers and literary critics were confused at first, but then they got the joke. The book is a roman a clef about my Warhol years and my life in
Erich chimed with, “Maura, why don’t you tell Tony about your Warhol connection?”
She replied, “I was on the front cover of Andy Wahrol’s celebrated magazine, Interview. I will email the picture—if I can find it.”
Roc, a saucy grin on his face, inquires: “I heard you were a rock singer and did an album called Yoga Hotel.”
“Yoga Hotel is the name of a song I wrote about
I asked, “So your second novel inspired by rock music?”
She nodded and said, “I’ll send you the CD and the novel.” She glances at her watch. “Guys, I have to get to my next rendezvous. Why don’t we hook up at the Foreign Correspondents Club Wednesday next?”
The author Richard Rubacher and I sit at the bar of the Foreign Correspondents Club conversing with Richard Ehrlich, the correspondent for the Washington Times and co-author of Hello My Big Big Honey with my dear friend David Walker.
Maura enters the club. She air kisses me and I introduced her to the two Richards. She is much in demand and makes the rounds of the many journalists and friends in the club. Richard Ehrlich declares, “Maura is a goddess.”
Maura and her entourage decide to continue the party at some salacious night spot. She invites us to join her but we are busy so she comes up with a counter-offer. “I’m off to
Richard Rubacher and I cross the threshold of
Michael Krantzler sits opposite Maura, accompanied by his South African lady friend Rinette. A brace of striking women make the scene—Laura, a Mexican Embassy attaché, is petite and charming. She has soulful brown eyes and short hair in the style of the French film actress Leslie Caron. Her friend is Nativone, a French-Laotian whose blood line can be traced to the Laotian royal family.
Laura and I converse in Spanish. She is hospitable and vivacious and invites me to a social function sponsored by the Mexican Embassy. “Tony, come to the Foreign Correspondents Club next week. My Embassy will sponsor a screening of Luis Estrada’s film Herod’s Law
She sips at her tequila sunrise and continues, “It is brilliant cinema and there will be free tequila, tacos and nachos.”
Richard Rubacher posed some questions to Maura. “How many languages to you speak?”
The renaissance woman answered, “I speak Hindu, Urdu, Tibetan, Nepali, French and Italian. When I return to
“Maura,” Richard asks, “what are your other accomplishments?”
She laughed: “In addition to being a novelist, composer, rock and social activist, I am a short story writer, poet, comedian and night club performer.”
“Tell us about your role as a social activist.”
“Briefly, I worked in refugee camps in
I walk to the bar and order a drink with the marvelous sobriquet Death In The Afternoon. It is a concoction of vodka, tequila, rum, triple sec with fruit juice. It is was good enough for Ernest Hemingway it was good enough for me. The band swings into the dreamy Italian classic Volare.
Roc and Erich come to the bar. They were held up at a comedy gig. Roc has a irreverent glint in his eyes. He sums up this marvelous evening to perfection: “Roc steals Robin Williams best line from the hit comedy Man Of The Year. He raises his wine glass in Maura’s direction and cracks, “I did not have sex with that woman—but I wanted to.”
The diners at the Last Supper table erupt into hilarity.
It’s appropriate that around the 
